


Together We Will Live Forever

by A_Vexing_Hex



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Hound of the D'urbervilles
Genre: M/M, Songfic, angst everywhere, overelaborate songfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-25
Updated: 2012-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 07:05:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Vexing_Hex/pseuds/A_Vexing_Hex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three storylines. They begin the same. Two men collide, and prove each other’s match. They trust and injure each other. They murder and fuck, they seethe and lust. It’s told, three times. It ends, three times, and with the same result. (This is a MorMor fic, based on the soundtrack and movie The Fountain. It is based off of the concept of three storylines running at once, one in the past, one in the present, and one in the future, and therefore utilizes the storylines from Kim Newman’s Hound of the D’urbervilles, BBC’s Sherlock, and an alternative AU respectively. Please enjoy this beautiful, convoluted mess.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Together We Will Live Forever

Raining.

It often was, on the days that they were in the flat, staring aghast across the room at one another, sensing each bit of unease and prodding at it without a single word breathed. Thick tension pervaded the air and mirrored the humidity of the outside world.

Long pulses of occasional motion, never quick little flits, as there would be when both men were occupied with a job. It was in the way one would shift his legs, and the other would stretch his arms…all to try and remove the stagnant feel of something important in the space that separated criminal mastermind and hired man. It broke the words apart, split them into fragments that softened through the mists that kept them apart.

They sat, they stared, they reflected each other, Moriarty and Moran both. Twisted funhouse mirrors, the pair of them. Caricatures would wriggle and pop out from surfaces of both sets of eyes, and those eyes began to seem more flat than their orbesque cousins.

“It’s probably _stupid_ of _me_ to trust an _imbecile_ like _you_ , you know.”

Jim finally continued. They were a little cliché, and not quite as artful, those words. He drawled, mouth hanging more open to one side than the other, and his head drifted just slightly askew, to his left.

Sebastian Moran had not been long in his service. A few months…There had been a number of jobs. One or two of them botched, but successes had been etched out as well.

That same Colonel’s boot slid across the floor slightly at the final break of silence, and the slightest of scowls, or at least the slightest pinch of Moran’s harsh scowls, overtook his expression. Moriarty, egocentric as he was, had seen the sharpshooter proven. Bullets lay buried from long, and short, distances in walls and tricky little crevices of sidewalk and stone and rigid corpses, the projectiles’ graves chosen spots from a mind that knew where to hide them.

And yet, it seemed natural, for that precise phrase to fall from Jim’s lips. It was regimen and routine, and all that was expected. This conversation rolled around in his mouth constantly, tasting of blood and bitters. It was a most unfortunate cocktail that often caused him to purse his lips in distaste.

Thunder rumbled overhead, and the pitter-patter of the moisture that spilled from clouds above increased volume into something more of a dull roar. The sound of it drew Sebastian’s eyes to the side, to the dingy windows of his flat and the curtain of water that veiled it.

The World’s Only Consulting Criminal didn’t pay any heed, though. He was too busy deciphering the whorls of paint on the ceiling, lost somewhere in that demented head of his.

The fog settled in again, filling the gap of silence.

This was a dance, a slow, heady waltz. It had happened _before_ , and it would occur **again**. There was a robust sense that everything that had occurred within the course of their lives was already set in place. As it began would it begin continually, and however it ended…

Well. It would end only in the brightest of flames, in the shattering of worlds and the screaming of stars. Nothing could be put out with a soft snuff in the universe of Moriarty and Moran.

So it began, and so it would end. But not just so, not just yet.

There was work to be done. Work made the cogs spin and whir into motion. And yet, here they were, in the mist, in the fog.

Sebastian felt a stirring in the back of his throat that might have been a question. The mark, where precisely he was supposed to stand, what fucking color shirt was he supposed to wear.

Moriarty beat him to vocalizing, though.

“You know, Sebastian…

“ there’ll come a day when you’re the last man standing.”

_Sebastian hissed as the needle was pressed through his hand._

_“Stop now. You did a horrendous job last time you were allowed to stitch your own wounds.” Professor James Moriarty. Collected, quiet, running the thread back and forth through the injury, tying it shut with the most delicate of motions. It was a fascinating skill, one he had picked up out of sheer study and boredom. It had become useful in an experiment or two._

_He watched Moran wince, and his head oscillated, leaned to the side. Showings of pain, little minute twitches and convulsions within his face that were not echoed in the steadiness of his hand. Such a soldier. Always in the field of battle, always trusted to keep himself composed even if it wasn’t entirely….composed._

_Something pulled at the corner of James’s mouth. It wasn’t affection, per ce, or even really a smile. It tickled there a moment, and then faded._

_Professor pulled back from Colonel, and the two regarded each other._

_Moran drew in a breath through his nose. It was something of a sniff, congestion sounding through his throat and down into his chest. Yes, that was almost certainly a cold that had settled in his lungs. Pity. He would be less efficient now._

_Nonetheless, a monogrammed handkerchief found its way into Basher’s hand. It was used to dispose of less-than-pleasant fluids. Sebastian attempted to return it, but Moriarty made something of a face and waved his hand at the thing. It found itself in the dustbin instead._

_“You really could have told me what you had planned in the beginning, you know. You could have, but you didn’t. And I got cut up and strangled and shot at and bloody—“ There was certain brand of exasperation that overtook the killer. His brow would knit together, and his mustache would curl in a certain way that imbued a feral, antagonistic air within his demeanor. The snarl of a hound, unleashed and baying after prey._

_Or, in this case, pleading its case to its master._

_The Professor spared a glance to the wooden door in the side of his office. It lead into the room that housed a few experiments. Namely, his family of wasps, and their whispering, buzzing, biting habits. He recalled their drone and used it to score under what Sebastian was saying, effectively weaving the two into a sort of whirring orchestration. It made Moran’s speech more interesting, and helped him plan out the rest of the evening, locked in that room._

_“--nd you could have said, could have goddamn bloody said there’d be two piss-poor shots trying to take my balls off.” The gunman held up a paw and swished a single finger in a motion much too blunt. First one way, and then the other, and then back, emphasizing each directional movement with a single word. “So. You. Know.”_

_James Moriarty, son of James Moriarty, leaned back in his chair for a singular moment. He found the wood of the door to the wasps again, shifted his gaze to the window and the shroud of rain that surrounded everything, and then bowed his head. When he lifted it up again, he was giving something of a laugh_

_He knew Moran hated it. If he didn’t know it, from the way that the gunman shrunk away from him now, he would have been able to discern. But he knew the shrill, the inhuman cackle that shook from his lungs into the air and made the glass in the room flinch as well._

_Sometimes even the good Professor couldn’t help but chuckle._

_Sebastian finally settled back into his seat, and his trousers were perhaps still completely dry. He stared. He frowned deeply, and set his jaw. “The hell was that on about?!” Though exclaimed, there were notes in his tone that seemed to imply an attempt to hide how disconcerted he was. Another harsh sniff backed up the sound of him speaking._

_Moriarty nodded. To himself. He stood, and turned to the window, admired the flash of lightning from the sky, smile fading back into the abyss where it belonged._

_Hands clasped behind his back. “You have my trust, Colonel.”_

_The words weren’t necessary. Every amount of faith between them was unspoken. It was implied and imbued and bred. That was why expression had Moran completely focused on him now._

_A pause._

_“…What do you mean by that?”_

_The Professor shook his head. He turned again, strode past Sebastian’s chair. He touched his hired man’s hand, briefly, then strode away and left it cold, left Moran wondering with a screwed-up expression, and went to his wasps._

**His feet pounded through the rain, destroyed puddles as he went. Sebastian gasped for breath, shoving his way past a fighting couple to barge through into an alleyway.**

**The bleeding from his arm wasn’t going to stop any time soon. He was aware. But at least the tracker was out, and it was going to be much easier to evade the police that followed him so closely. That lifeblood would wash away in the rain, and leave no trace. But right now, he needed to run, runrunrun, fast and far away.**

**A bit of uneven pavement caught him, and it sent him slightly sprawling. His shoulder caught the corner of a brick building, which turned him slightly to the side. It stole the air from his lungs, and disoriented him for a moment.**

**Voices rang out behind him in phrases of pursuit. Moran whirled for a moment, then suddenly remembered the situation. A ribbon of harsh curses flowed out of his mouth, and then he was bolting again.**

**Not fast enough, not quick enough! The burning in his lungs was going to overwhelm him, and suddenly fear began to cause an eerie numbness in his appendages. He didn’t have anyone to stand for him, and the government was so overbearing in this day and age…no freedom, no secrecy, everything was open pages and he was going to be erased, and all for an expression of power that had needed to be done—**

**A hand suddenly snatched at his wrist, and with a lurch sideways, he was caught up into an alleyway. With a slam, his back was against brick wall in the shadows, and he snarled. Being caught was not an option, and he opened his mouth to protest, reeled his hand back.**

**A forearm, not as thick as his own, pressed tight against his throat made him pause. His assailant’s other hand pressed firm over his mouth. It smelled bitter, and yet slightly warm, over-washed with some sort of expensive soap.**

**Sebastian writhed back against the wall, lashing out at his attacker with one of his legs. He could see him better now. Dark hair and matching, subtly wild eyes, a sneer curling his lips as a bright “shhhhhhhhhh” hissed through the air and the raindrops within it.**

**He didn’t cry out when the runaway gunman bit his hand enough to make it bleed. He winced, but no sound came from him.**

**Both froze as the police ran by, too consumed in checking their bleeping little technical wands and ware, completely ignoring the slight alley off to the side.**

**The two had eyes locked as they passed. Blood now dripped down Seb’s chin. Not as much as what wept from his arm, but enough to be warm and slick and salted against his flesh.**

**Once they were gone, the stranger gazed off to the side. He waited for the absence of sound, down to the rattling of traffic and the splash of falling water.**

**And then he laughed. He pulled his hand away, looked at it, and shook his head.**

**Sebastian wouldn’t have it.**

**He shoved the dark man up against the wall. “What if they had seen us, seen _me_ , huh? What the fuck were you even playing at?!”**

**Held up by the collar of a shirt that lacked a button or two, crazed eyes met Moran’s and an Irish-accented exclamation sputtered out, “But they didn’t, Colonel Moran, did they? They didn’t, because they can’t _seeeeee_ us. They can’t, and they won’t!” A clammy hand settled on the gunman’s wrist, sticky from the lacerations there. “And I just saved your life, so perhaps you owe me two feet on pavement.”**

**There was consideration, and then the other man, this being of shadows was lowered down, but kept against the mortar and brick behind him. “How do you know my fucking name?”**

**“I know a lot of things. I know why you’re running. I know you’re a murderer and a thief.” The sleeve of that battered shirt was pulled up, showing heavy, gnarled scarring on the stranger’s forearm. Tracker dug out, by something partially blunt, if the Colonel’s assumptions were correct. “You’ve heard my name once or twice, and I’ve heard yours a great deal many more. I know you, Sebastian Moran, and I have a proposition for you, for both of us.”**

**“And what the hell could you possibly offer me?”**

**“A contract.” Nonchalance entered his voice, and the stranger nodded to himself. “You know how to plant evidence. You know how to wield a gun. And I need a man dead, in a most convincing manner.”**

**Moran’s face dripped wet. Nothing about this meeting was normal. Then again, neither was life, nowadays. Not after what he had done.**

**“…Who?”**

**“Me.”**

“…What is that even supposed to fucking mean to me, Jim?” It was as though Sebastian had woken from a dream. Nothing between them except a cloudburst, and then suddenly the hired man was alive and his personality returned. The air cleared, and suddenly they were themselves again. Pause had been lifted and Play had been pressed.

The psychopath snorted and gave a sharp, short laugh. “It means I’ve had a lapse for trusting you.” He stood and stretched.

Sebastian seemed to mull over Moriarty’s idea of trust. He scowled and scorned over it, but Jim didn’t give him much time to. The subject changed.

“I’ve a shopping list for you.”

“…There’d better not be a mess of illegal herbs and shit on this one too.”

“Just a few teencey ounces.”

“I had to fight seven men with pointy sticks for the last batch.”

“You’ll fight tooth and nail whenever you can.”

“Till I’m the last man standing.”


End file.
